


The Perfect Song

by alphafemale92



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 04:25:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3964315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alphafemale92/pseuds/alphafemale92
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean never left anything unfinished except his relationship with Marco.  After a fatal accident takes Marco away from him, Jean must learn to live his life again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lips of an Angel

**Author's Note:**

> Hey just to note this fic has "parodies" of songs in each chapter. I've changed some of the words so please no hate on that. Thanks. I hope you like it. Sorry I killed Marco off but I wanted to explore something a little different. Comments would be awesome :)  
> The first song is Lips of an Angel by Hinder

_ Marco why you calling me so late? _

_It’s really hard to talk right now._   
_Marco why you crying? Is everything okay?_   
_I gotta whisper ‘cause I can’t be too loud._

_Well, Eren’s in the next room_   
_I really wish he was you_   
_I guess I never really moved on_   
_It’s really good to hear your voice saying my name_   
_It sounds so sweet_   
_Coming from the lips of an angel_   
_Hearing those words they make me weak_

_And I never wanted to say goodbye_   
_But boy you make it hard to be faithful_   
_With the lips of an angel_

Tears run in streams down his cheeks as he sleeps trapped on a stage with no release. A crowd swarming him with no relief.

_It’s funny that you’re calling me tonight_   
_And yes, I dream of you too_   
_And does he know you’re talking to me_   
_Will he start a fight?_   
_No I don’t think he has a clue_

_Well, Eren’s in the next room_   
_I really wish he was you_   
_I guess I never really moved on_   
_It’s really good to hear your voice saying my name_   
_It sounds so sweet_   
_Coming from the lips of an angel_   
_Hearing those words they make me weak_

_And I never wanted to say goodbye_   
_But boy you make it hard to be faithful_   
_With the lips of an angel_

The crowd swarms in on the stage swaying ominously to the music, and all he wanted to do was run. But then a pair of chocolate brown eyes catch his in the front of the crowd and he calms. The final chorus coming out in a hypnotic lullaby.

_It’s really good to hear your voice saying my name_   
_It sounds so sweet_   
_Coming from the lips of an angel_   
_Hearing those words they make me weak_

_And I never wanted to say goodbye_   
_But boy you make it hard to be faithful_   
_With the lips of an angel_

_Marco why you calling me so late?_

And his dream dissolved until all that was left was chocolate brown eyes and freckled cheeks. He choked back tears both in his dream and in his sleep. He awoke in a cold sweat the tears running down his face making him appear as if he’s a child. He frantically looked around his room but found it empty. ‘Alone, alone as always,’ he thought to himself sitting up. He turned on his side table lamp and surveyed the room once more. Nothing hide in the shadows. He held his head in his hands, sighing. He was shaking slightly with controlled sobs, refusing to let them take over again. He knew he could do this, it was just a dream. When the sun rose it would be all over. He knew all this but he still couldn’t shake the feel of those eyes watching him. He knew it would be another sleepless night for him, haunting by those eyes and the unbelievably freckled cheeks that he could no longer see.

_Six years earlier_

“Jean! Jean! Hey Jean! Wait up!” Marco ran to catch up with his best friend, roommate, boyfriend, the labels could go on. He clapped him on the shoulder when he caught up. He took a few slightly labored breaths before speaking. “Ready for lunch?” He shot Jean a toothy grin, despite the scowl on the other’s face.  
“Dork,” was Jean’s only response but he steered them towards the lunch room anyway. He threw his book bag down at a table and headed over to the growing lines where food was served, pulling Marco behind him. He grabbed a tray and some food, returning to the table before talking. He was halfway through a slice of pizza before Marco finally decided to break the silence.  
“So brooding artist is the mood for today I see.” He laughed at his own joke in the corniest of ways, waving his fork absentmindedly at Jean.  
“I don’t know what you mean,” Jean replied nonchalantly.  
“Eren says he saw you stomping out of your painting class. Want to talk about it?” Marco cocked his head to one side, resembling a puppy, his fork still hanging out of his mouth in a gesture he hoped would encourage Jean to confide in him.  
“Jaeger doesn’t know shit. I didn’t stomp out, I walked out.”  
“That bad?” Marco asked but he already knew the answer. Jean was notorious for ‘walking out’ when he became too frustrated with whatever he was doing. It was a flaw he had but one that Marco usually ignored politely.  
“I can’t get it right.” He stuffed a fork full of potatoes into his mouth angrily. “I don’t get why we have to paint abstract, it’s pointless and childish.” Marco face palmed at Jean’s lack of etiquette. It was the same every day for the last few weeks. Jean hated being reigned in and Marco knew it. The painting class he’d signed up for was nothing like he thought it should be and it aggravated him. He thought he’d get to paint what he wanted to but instead he was stuck painting in styles that he hated.  
“I’m sure you’ll get it right. How’s your drawing class going?” He was trying to diplomatically change the subject to something he knew Jean liked.  
“The professor says I need a new inspiration,” Jean sighed heavily putting down his fork. “I guess your face isn’t interesting anymore.” Marco laughed even if Jean didn’t mean for it to be funny.  
“I’m sure you can draw something more interesting than my face. You’re too talented to waste all your time drawing this ugly mug.” Marco pulled a stupid face.  
“But I don’t want to.” Jean pouted like a child causing Marco to let out a boisterous laugh. It was infectious causing Jean to laugh as well.  
“Jean we all have to do things we don’t want to. It’s called growing up.”  
Jean pouted, “But I just want to write music about your freckles.” Marco chuckled some more despite himself.  
“You’ll have plenty of time to write about freckles and anything else you want to. Right now you need to focus on your studies.” Marco’s lecture fell on deaf ears. Jean’s eyes had glazed over in a mystical trance that only meant one thing. Jean was inspired and that meant nothing else in the world matter. Marco watched in awe as Jean pulled out a notebook and began scribbling down words in a flurry of movements. He didn’t seem to notice all the noise and commotion of the lunch room. He wrote for a short while longer, filling the page with his illegible handwriting before he stopped with a satisfied sigh. Marco giggled as Jean stuck the pen between his lips and read over what he’d written.  
“Perfect,” he whispered to himself.  
“What’s perfect?” Marco asked curiously trying to read what he’d written. Jean looked up shocked as if he’d forgotten Marco was even there. He cradled the notebook against his chest where Marco couldn’t read it.  
“It’s not ready for you to see yet,” he responded defensively. He closed the notebook, placing it safely in his backpack.  
“Alright, when it is, you’ll have to sing it to me.” Marco knew not to push his boyfriend. Jean was brilliant but he was also as self-conscious as they came. Marco would wait and he would eventually share. Marco looked at his watch and realized that he had class in ten minutes. He stood up leaning over the table to place a quick kiss on Jean’s lips. “I’ll see you back in our room, my little prodigy.” Marco laughed as he left the table, Jean blushing a rather brilliant shade of red. That’s all Marco had to do to undo Jean. He was always reduced to a blushing fool when Marco called him cute names and kissed him.  
Once Marco had left, Jean pulled the notebook back out again. He didn’t have class the coming period so he decided it best to work on his latest piece while it was still fresh in his mind. It really wasn’t much yet, a few lines in a certain direction but he could see that it could be one of his best pieces. “Lips of an angel,” he mumbled to himself. It fit somehow. He knew that he had the title. Watching Marco talk, watching him laugh; all of Jean’s thoughts were drawn to the perfection that was his lips. In his mind an angel would be envious of Marco’s lips. He continued scanning his page of scribbled notes, he scratched out a few lines here and there, and he made edits to others. It was a sad song he knew that for sure but he tended to write sad music. He started to hum a tune along with some of the lyrics. ‘These don’t feel right they’re just too sad.’ He scratched out another line, thinking back to a time not long ago when these lyrics could be applied. ‘He wasn’t always mine, even when I wanted him to be.’ He read a line again and changed it. ‘This may be the death of me.’ He wrote another line. “Well, Eren’s in the next room. I really wish he was you,” he mumbled the words to a rhythm in his head. It wounded good even if it left a bitter taste in his mouth. Eren was Jean’s ex and even though they were on much better terms in college than high school, it wasn’t like they were best friends. “Marco, why you crying, is everything ok?” he whispered the line to himself over and over again until it sunk in. The image of his boyfriend with tears streaming down his face sent him over the edge. He slammed his notebook shut with a shuttering sigh. This was a piece that could wait for another day, it was just too much for one sitting. He put away his things, deciding to head to his music theory class a little early for some last minute studying.

_Present day_

Jean knelt in his closet digging through a box of old notebooks that had been stuffed in the way back, long forgotten. Near the bottom of the box he found what he was looking for. It had seen better days, the cover was torn in half, taped back together with grey tape, and the back was missing completely. Over half the pages had been torn out at one time or another but the ones that remained were covered in doodles and scribbled writing. He leafed through the pages until he found the one he was looking for. His hands shook as he ran his fingers over the page, all of the scratched out lines, all of the mistakes he’d thought he’d made. All the lies he’d thought he’d written. “I never found the nerve to sing this to you,” he whispered clutching the notebook to his chest, “I’m sorry.” It had only been after Marco had passed away that Jean had gotten up the nerve to sing the song. He couldn’t bring himself to sing it if it would cause Marco pain. He wouldn’t have been able to bear seeing those big chocolate eyes filled with tears. But the song was magic even if it was about a dead muse.  
Jean read the song over and over again. It felt as if it had been a lifetime since he’d written it. It felt like a different person had written it entirely. Someone who was lost in the romantics of life. Someone who had felt lose but not the completely overwhelming feel of true lose. He bowed his head sobbing in agony. He was gone and nothing could bring him back. Nothing could stop the hurt washing over Jean. He curled in on himself sobbing in agony. Marco was gone and nothing could bring him back. Jean clutched the notebook to his chest until his sobs had subsided, until his legs had become numb. Finally the sun rose above the horizon and all he could do was glare at it with blood shot eyes. He knew he had to face another day. The sun was bright mocking him with the promise of a mild spring day. It was the kind of sunrise that Marco would’ve liked. The kind that made him think anything was possible. Jean on the other hand spat a curse at it. There was nothing beautiful about the day ahead of him. The sun was just a pale imitation of the sun he had worshipped, a sun that had died, a sun he had treasured as his own. It was just a game of survival now. Just a day to day struggle to live until he found something better to do.  
He stood, his knees giving him trouble, again, as they cracked and ached. He stretched, tossing the notebook onto his bed for later. He headed for the shower, stumbling a bit down the hall. It was yet another of being a background musician for a dumb radio show no one would bother listening to, and he hated it.


	2. Remembering Marco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song for this chapter is Remembering Sunday by All Time Low  
> Thanks for reading  
> Sorry if this is really crappy or really sad, it'll get happier with time

_I woke up from dreaming and took off my shoes_   
_Started making my way past six in the evening_   
_I haven’t been sober for days_

_Leaning now into the breeze_   
_Remembering Marco, I fell to my knees_   
_We had a life time together_   
_But memories don’t last_   
_Like the feeling of what I need_

_Now this place seems so different to me_   
_He pulls on my hand with a ghost of a grin_   
_He leads me upstairs, he leads me upstairs_   
_Leaves me dying to get in_

_Forgive me, I’m trying to find_   
_My calling, I’m calling at night_   
_I don’t mean to be a bother_   
_But have you seen this boy?_   
_He’s been lurking in my dreams_   
_And it’s driving me crazy, it seems_   
_I’m going to ask him to marry me_

_Even though I don’t believe in love_   
_He’s determined to call my bluff_   
_Who could deny these butterflies?_   
_They’re filling my guts_

Jean missed a chord on his guitar effectively breaking the trance enveloped around him. He stared blankly at the wall across from him. It had been months since he’d been so taken away by music. The feeling of overwhelming peace was too much to deny as he strummed his way back into the daydream.

_Waking his neighbors, so many faces_   
_I plead and I try_   
_But I’m always denied_   
_Now I’m dying to get inside_

_Forgive me, I’m trying to find_   
_My calling, I’m calling at night_   
_I don’t mean to be a bother_   
_But have you seen this boy?_   
_He’s been lurking in my dreams_   
_And it’s driving me crazy, it seems_   
_I’m going to ask him to marry me_

_The neighbors said he died today_   
_Funny how it stormed all day_   
_I didn’t think much of it then_   
_But it’s starting to all make sense_   
_Oh, I can see now that all of these clouds_   
_Are following me in my desperate endeavor_   
_To find my whoever, whoever he may be_

Jean cried out, slamming his fist against the wall, behind the couch, in frustration. “Marco,” slipped out between his lips in barely a whisper. He couldn’t hold back a shaking sob as it escaped from his lips.

_He’s not holding back_   
_I’ve done something so terrible_   
_I’m terrified to speak_   
_But he expects that from me_   
_I’m messed up, I’ll be blunt, now the rain is just_   
_Washing you out of my hair and out of my mind_   
_Keeping my eyes off the world_   
_You’re so many thousands of feet off the ground, I’m not over you now_   
_You’re at home in the clouds, and towering over my head_

_Well I guess I’ll go home now_   
_I guess I’ll go home now_   
_I guess I’ll go home now_   
_I’ll never go home_

Jean let his guitar safely slip from his lap and onto the couch next to him. He curled in upon himself, like a child, hiding his face in his knees. He felt so small and weak. Why had this all happened to him? He was a mere shadow of the man he had once been but he didn’t know how he could return to being him even if he wanted to. He was just a memory of the past, a past that he couldn’t get back. He threw a punch at the wall effectively leaving a dent in its surface. That Jean had died with Marco. He stood abruptly, ignoring the pain in his legs. Anger lit a fire behind his amber eyes, a new determination there. He began to pace along the short hall from one end of his apartment to the other. Anger had overtaken him suddenly making him feel stupid and childish but unable to stop himself. He just kept pacing watching the walls blur and come back into focus around him.  
He suddenly reached out his arm swiping a picture of himself off of the wall. It hit the floor with a defining crash, shattering into glittering shards. He didn’t care. He took his framed diploma off the wall, reading the gold embossed letters before he tossed it into the heap as well. He didn’t care anymore, nothing mattered. He grabbed another picture determined to see all of them broken but stopped. It was a picture of Marco. He dropped to his knees clutching it to his chest. He had almost destroyed Marco, something he didn’t want to ever do. The tears began to stream down his face.

_Six and a half years earlier_

“Jean, what are you going to major in?” Marco rolled over on Jean’s bed to face him, pinning him with a serious gaze.  
“I still haven’t decided yet,” Jean replied with a sheepish look. They would be leaving for college in a little over a month and yet he still hadn’t decided. He felt like an idiot. It felt like he was the only one stranded without an answer. He would have loved to say music or art but that would never sit well with his parent who wanted him to be a law student or maybe even a doctor. “Maybe I’ll major in business or something.” He shrugged his shoulders turning away to look out the window. He prayed that Marco would just drop it but knew he wasn’t that lucky.  
“Jean you shouldn’t do that,” Marco exclaimed far more distressed that Jean himself. “You’re meant to major in music or art, something creative. You’d be miserable majoring in business.” Jean was touched by his boyfriend’s concern but refused to yield.  
“A business major is a sensible decision.” His defense sounded lame even to his own ears.  
“Maybe alongside a music degree. But I still think you need to get a degree in something you love.”  
“I don’t think they have degrees in Freckled Jesus.” Jean turned to pin Marco with a smoldering look. Marco laughed despite himself, blushing.  
“You know what I mean, Jean Kirstein,” he laughed some more hiding his face in Jean’s pillow, muffling the melodic sound.  
“I know,” Jean sobered up after his having his own laugh. “I’m taking painting, drawing, and music theory class, along with a required English class this semester. We’ll see where it goes from there.” He finally conceited. He nudged Marco’s ear with his nose.  
“Good.” Marco raised his head to look at Jean not realize how close the other way laying to him. “You are an amazing artist Jean.” Jean barked out a laugh, kissing his boyfriend on the nose. Marco laughed back, catching his lips in a series of quick little kisses. He rolled over onto his back pulling Jean on top of him.  
“Marco you are so bias.” Jean rolled his eyes adoringly at the goofy grin plastered on Marco’s face.  
“Why do you say that?” Marco batted his eyes attempting to appear innocent. He tried but failed to keep his face neutral.  
“Maybe because all of my art is of a certain freckled angel.” Marco’s face lit up with joy as his grin grew impossibly wider. He laughed boisterously peppering Jean’s face in kisses. They laid that way until Jean’s mother had called them to dinner. Nothing much was said nor done but it was a lazy afternoon that Jean would cherish. A day that was simple, something he had taken for grant at the time. Something he’d one day wish he had back.

_Present_

Jean hadn’t realized that the streams of tears running down his face had turned into rivers. The tears dripped from his cheeks and nose, hitting the glass, of the picture he held in a vice like grip, like little crystals. The glass had cracked beneath the pressure of his fingers without him knowing. He had kneeled in the broken glass from the pictures he had thrown. He didn’t care and that scared him. His legs were bleeding from the shards of glass that had imbedded themselves in his knees and calves but he was numb to the pain. All he cared about was the picture he held in his hands. Marco was smiling up at him through the blur of his own tears, all teeth and freckles. His eyes shining with liquid chocolate. The joy was radiating from him even in the lifeless picture. It had been taken nearly a year before, nothing really special. Just a day when they had been out fishing but still Jean loved it. Marco was smiling just for him.  
A knock on the door made Jean jump with a start. He considered ignoring it but the knocking persisted to the point that he became annoyed. Jean stood groaning quietly, he set the picture carefully down on the small table at the end of the hall before heading for the door. He answered the door cautiously, hiding most of himself behind the door as a shield. It was Connie and Sasha, he should’ve guessed they were the only ones who ever came knocking. Their faces fell into frowns as soon as they saw the state that Jean was in.  
“What happened to you, Jean?” Sasha pushed her was into the apartment to survey Jean completely. His hands were cut, glittering with microscopic splinters of glass inside the gashes. His legs had the worst of it, large pieces of glass cleaning to the blood and hair.  
“I accidently knocked a few pictures off of the wall.” He looked down astonished that he didn’t hurt with how much blood he saw. Connie and Sasha ignored his blatant lie, instead Connie lead him to a kitchen chair. Sash dodged the hazardous mess in the hallway to grab the first aid kit from the bathroom. Connie found the broom and dust pan and began to clean up the mess Jean had made. Sasha knelt in front of Jean starting the tedious task of removing all the glass from Jean’s wounds.  
“What really happened Jean? No bullshit, because no offense but you look like hell.”  
“I don’t think you can say you like hell without actually offending someone,” Connie interjected from the hall. “And dude you look worse than hell.”  
“Thanks Connie, I really needed that.” Jean winced finally feeling the first pricks of pain.  
“Jean what’s gotten into you?” Sasha ignored Connie’s comment. “I know it’s been hard since,” she paused to choose her words carefully. “I know it’s been hard since the accident but you have to take better care of yourself, Jean. You look like you haven’t eaten or slept in days. We come to check on you and you’re covered in glass bleeding. This isn’t healthy Jean.” She let her words sink in before she continued, “When was the last time you ate?” She dutifully continued cleaning his wounds as he sat quietly thinking over her question.  
“I think yesterday,” he paused, “Or maybe it was the day before that. What day is it?” Jean was having a really hard time remembering all of a sudden. Sasha’s forehead wrinkled with her concern.  
“It’s Sunday Jean. You have work tomorrow.” She shared a knowing look with Connie over her shoulder as he came to join them, the hall successfully cleaned up.  
“Oh then it was Friday,” he said dreamily slipping away. Sasha snapped her fingers in front of his face refusing to lose him.  
“Well good thing we’ve come to have dinner with you. We’ll order pizza.” She continued to pull shards from his legs, finally finishing one to move onto the other. Connie sat down next to her whispering in her ear so Jean couldn’t hear. She frowned but didn’t say anything back except to send Connie to order a few pizzas. After a while she said, “You know you can always ask for help Jean. We are here for you, not just Connie and myself but everyone. We all love you.”  
“I know.” He sounded defensive, he knew it, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want help from anyone, he just wanted Marco back even if it wasn’t possible.  
“Then ask us. I know you need help. Jean, I can see it. Even if it is something small, we will do it. Even if you think it’s silly. I can’t stand seeing you this way. Even if you just want to watch a movie or play videogames. That’s ok. I just want to see you get better, we all do.” Connie came over nodding agreement.  
“I will when I feel like it, alright. I just don’t need it right now.” He ended the conversation. Sasha shook her head but diligently finished cleaning his wounds. The pizza arrived shortly after and they watched Netflix until Jean fell asleep. They tucked him in on the couch and cleaned up the pizza mess. As they were leaving he woke up enough to say goodbye. He was almost sad to see them go. For once he kind of enjoyed their company but he’d never admit it to them.


End file.
